It's On
by LillianMW
Summary: Carl has a crush on Andrea. Unfortunately, someone else in camp does, too. Let the pissing contest begin.
1. Chapter 1

**It's On**  
>by Leela<p>

Carl likes Andrea's hair.

It was the first thing he noticed about her when his mom and Shane stumbled upon the small camp of survivors outside of Atlanta months prior. He likes the way it pools in ringlets around the base of her neck, even when it's in a ponytail. He likes the way the sun catches it during the day and makes it appear almost white in the warm light. Sometimes, as he walks beside her, his much shorter stature makes it hard to differentiate between strands of Andrea's hair and the sun's descending rays, especially in the fall air with yellow and orange leaves falling all around them and tendrils of blonde blowing in the air. And in the evenings, as the sun starts to bid goodnight, he likes the way it takes up the color of honey and warm caramel. Often at night, as they sit around the fire, he looks at Andrea's hair and the light of the flames and sparks send off flecks of yellow and white all around her, and he falls asleep dreaming of a mighty prince coming to save Rapunzel from her tower.

Carl likes Andrea's eyes.

The first time he noticed them they were pale blue, and it reminded him of winter and snow and icicles. The second time he noticed them, they were pallid green, and they brought up images for Carl of sweet limeade on a hot summer day. When she's sad they take a particular aqua hue, and when she's happy they are bright blue and green. When she's angry or determined, or firing her gun, they get so icy and light they're almost white, but then just as soon as her tempers cool, they take on their normal pale blue color. She probably doesn't know it but there is a whole world in her eyes, an open book anyone who pays attention can easily read, of past experiences, heartache, loss, and disappointment, but also of happiness and love. He likes that he can see so much of her in her eyes.

But mostly, he likes the way they light and warm up when she looks at him and gives him a smile. It makes his heart do a weird pitter-patter thingy and his cheeks feel warm and tingly. Sometimes, when she catches him staring, she smiles and winks at him, and he feels a burst of energy in his little heart so big that he spends the rest of the day smiling for no reason (even when his mom yells at him for not doing his homework).

He likes Andrea's personality.

He likes seeing her square off against Shane or his dad. She's small, smaller than Carol, even, but she doesn't seem to be scared of them. His dad learns really quickly that she's a force to be reckoned with, and though it takes Shane a little longer, eventually she earns his respect as well. She doesn't give up ever, and when he sees her stand up for herself Carl wishes he had the same amount of strength and determination to rebel (because really? Homework?). The grown ups used to ignore her a lot but now a lot of them treat her as a leader. Carl likes seeing her shooting alongside his dad, and when the two take on dozens of walkers together, he knows she's one of the very few people in the camp he would feel safe with one on one.

But he also likes seeing her when she's at home, when she's soft and sweet and takes care of Carol, or when she sits by herself with a book on her lap. Once even, when his mom's tummy began to hurt and his dad was away, Andrea sat with her all night long, until the baby finally calmed down in his mom's stomach and she fell asleep. Carl hid under the covers as he watched the whole thing, and when his eyes drifted close Andrea was still there, gently massaging his mom's stomach.

Carl likes seeing Andrea fire her gun.

She does it with such resolute determination, such fiery intensity, but something about it is just as delicate and gentle. Almost like a choreographed dance, like that play with the ballerinas his mom used to go see with her girlfriend during Christmas. While everyone else yells and shot their guns with a dangerous twitch and panic, Andrea always seems calm, like she's most at peace when she's firing her gun. One time Carl saw her take on to about fifty walkers on her own, and later that week, when T-Dog came home with a pack of comic books for Carl to read, he put away all the Wonder Woman ones, thinking they couldn't possibly be any better than real life.

Carl likes Andrea. He doesn't know what that means or why his heart feels funny or why sometimes his hands sweat when she's around, but he likes looking at her. He likes being around her. He likes hearing her laugh or tell jokes around the campfire. He wonders what it would be like to hug her, or touch her hair, or hold her hand. He wonders why he wants to do those things.

It's a goofy kind of feeling, he thinks. It makes him feel giggly and silly. He knows it makes him _look_ silly, too. He learned that one afternoon weeks before when he was in the bedroom with his mom. She stood in front of the mirror, complaining about her growing figure, when Andrea came in to let them know dinner was ready. At that moment Carl saw the look on his face in the mirror, how in an instant it went from annoyed to bright, happy, and goofy. Thankfully his mom was too occupied with her belly to notice.

(He's tried not to let his face get like that again, but more often than not in vain.)

Today is a mellow day, filled with light household chores. They've found another house, a much bigger one, but it needs a lot of repairs. His dad and Shane started early that morning, but the rest of the group has decided to sit and relax. They are out in the front porch, regaling each other with tales of their past lives, funny moments from long gone college years, awful first dates, etc, when Carl walks out. He knows he probably shouldn't be around all the adults without his parents around, but he's getting tired of being glued to his mother's legs twenty four hours a day. So he sits on the floor not too far from them, pretending to read one of his comic books, but listening to their conversation instead.

Glenn has just finished an embarrassing story. Something to do with shooting a gun too quickly. Carl doesn't know what that means, but they all laugh and he smiles at his book. He shouldn't be listening to them; he knows better. But ever since they lost Sophia he's been experiencing a kind of loneliness, and listening to their laughter helps him feel like maybe, if he pretends hard enough, he still has friends.

"Come on, Dixon," suddenly Andrea coaxes, and Carl looks up quickly at the sound of her voice. "Worst first date."

"Nah, I ain't playing," Daryl says quickly from where he's leaning on the railing, a bit away from them. Carl can already imagine the look on Daryl's face: a scowl and a frown. Daryl doesn't try to hide it when he's annoyed. But when Carl looks at him he sees something else entirely, and he sits up.

Andrea knows not to push, and fires the same question at T-Dog, who rolls up his sleeves and starts to tell a story about a woman with a wooden leg. Sounds interesting, but Carl can't seem to make himself concentrate. He's still looking at Daryl, whose features still haven't hardened. There's no scowl, no frown. He quickly wonders if something happened while he was taking his nap. Maybe Daryl is in a good mood, for the first time... ever, because all the walkers are gone. Maybe this whole thing is over and they can finally go home. Nothing, Carl imagines, could make Daryl look like that.

But something tells Carl otherwise, because even though Daryl has that look on his face, he doesn't seem to be thinking about the fate of the world. He doesn't seem to be thinking much, really. He's got his crossbow resting by his feet, his fingers play with each other in a twitchy way, and though he's trying to be discreet, he's still looking at Andrea.

But he's not looking at her the way his dad or mom look at her, or the way Glenn looks at her. He's looking at her in a way Carl doesn't understand, and it's not until he sees a flash of the reflection of his face in the mirror that he finally understands. He feels something weird in his stomach, but this time it's not silly or goofy, doesn't make him feel happy _at all_, and he reaches a definitive conclusion at that very moment.

Carl doesn't like Daryl.

to be continued...

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><p><em>I don't even know where this came from, or where it's going, but... there it is.<br>_


	2. Chapter 2

**It's On**  
>by Leela<p>

There is a gap in Daryl's mind; a rip in time that first tears apart the instant Sophia comes stumbling out of that barn.

The weeks after that day blend together in his mind in a hazy jumble; flashes here and there, dreams disguised as memories, entire days that simply aren't there. Random moments come to him at times, often as he's drifting off to sleep – the farm, the woods, being on the road again, and all the anger that threatened not only his safety, but the safety of the group as well. He still doesn't know if it's been weeks, or months, hell, maybe a whole year has passed him by. Time became irrelevant and untrustworthy on that fateful day, and the only souvenirs he keeps from those hazy weeks are the fresh new scars that now cover parts of his body that were previously unmarked (he still can't remember how he got most of them).

The gap is still there when someone (Rick or Shane or maybe the whole group) decided they should head north. Daryl didn't know what they would find in D.C., or if they would find anything at all, but he didn't care, really, merely tagged along because it took up less effort than going off on his own. That would require planning, and planning required mental energy, which he severely lacked. But fate intervened again the morning Lori collapsed from malnutrition and exhaustion, and after a heated discussion between Rick and Shane it was decided she was too unfit to travel and they should stay put for the time being.

Several days passed (or hours, maybe, he doesn't recall) when Shane came back with good news, and when Daryl saw the mansion the man found nestled in the woods, he felt a certain unease. The others were overjoyed, picking their own rooms and marveling at the space and the comfort. Not Daryl.

He wasn't used to this, all this space, all this... frou-frou crap. The house had clearly been looted and needed reparations, but it still made him feel uneasy, especially when everyone picked their own rooms and the remaining two were way too big and fancy for his comfort.

(He ignored the looks the others gave him when he moved all his stuff, along with a small cot, into the attic.)

The gap in his mind stayed open; a crack that allowed moments that normally would have remained with him forever slip out and stay forgotten. He figures he must've spent those first few days exploring the surrounding woods, because he knows them now like he knows the back of his hand. He remembers, or thinks he does, bringing home rabbits and squirrels and retiring to his attic straight away, because the crack in his mind also came with an inability to feel any hunger. He thinks, with terrible remorse, that he must've hurt Carol's feelings somewhere along the way, because she always kept a weary distance from him. Often he thought of apologizing for whatever he did or said to her, but she was too much of a reminder.

Time moved forward and left him behind. He spent every day in the woods, hunting or just walking, taking out the few geeks he ran into along the way with pronounced anger. His nights were filled with dreamless sleep, and he never bothered wondering when the haze would finally lift. He knew, just like they all knew and refused to admit it, that each one of them was living on borrowed time. Whether the haze intensified or lifted, it didn't matter. He was going to die, anyway, maybe sooner or maybe later, but surely.

But then something changes.

Nothing magnanimous makes the gap shrink. It's not a life or death experience that does it, or a sudden realization that life is precious, or even something small like the availability of potable water or a warm bed.

It's an improvised touch.

He can't remember the day now, those memories are still fuzzy, but he knows he was sitting at the table on a chilly morning, looking at his breakfast. The house was quiet, eerily so, and he thought he was by himself until a finger suddenly entered the periphery of his vision. He watched it wearily as it settled on one of his knuckles, and it rubbed his skin back and forth twice, three times... and then it was gone.

When he looked up, Andrea was sitting in front of him, neither smiling nor frowning, just looking a bit thoughtful, pale eyes piercing into his own. Before he could tell her off (because the last thing he needed was her fucking pity) she simply vanished.

For several hours after, he wondered if he could trust his mind enough to believe the moment actually happened. After all, the gap was still there and the haze that clouded over his mind sometimes liked to trick him into believing a reality that didn't really exist. When he saw her several hours later and she didn't seem to notice his presence, he became convinced that the moment didn't really happen at all. But her finger left a sort of burning on his knuckle, and the rest of the day he walked around absentmindedly rubbing it, as if he could just scratch away the feel of her touch.

The days continued uneventfully, save for Lori's recovery, but there was something different, maybe something in the area, the house, or the group. He kept a close eye on them, trying to work out in his mind what had changed. But they weren't different, really, just as annoying as they always were, and the house didn't feel any more alien than before. But suddenly... suddenly the days didn't blend together anymore. Life, very slowly, stopped being a blur and started coming into focus. Several days after, he felt his stomach growling for the first time since that day at the barn, and when he asked Carol for seconds that night, her doe eyes sparkled brightly and she tried to hide a smile (she failed).

He didn't know why hunting stopped being the sole reason for his existence, but he also began to help Rick and Shane with the reparations (though always in silence, as the two other men talked about mundane things from their past life). Every once in a while a blonde blur would whisk by and he would stiffen slightly and his knuckle would burn, but he never noticed his body's reaction, not with the haze still there. There was still something different, just maybe in the air or this whole place, but he'd never been away from Georgia, and he thought maybe North Carolina was just weird in general.

But it began to annoy him, this difference, and it annoyed him that he couldn't figure out what it was. He stayed up countless nights mulling it over, but could never come up with a credible explanation. He became almost obsessed with it, scanning the area for hours, exploring each room of the house, keeping a close eye on the group, but nothing could explain it.

The pieces of the puzzle started to come together one morning when he was up with the sun and began to get his crossbow ready. Andrea was in the kitchen when he entered it, and he didn't know why suddenly his legs stopped working when he saw her, but he stopped, for a second, still long enough for her to look up from the book she was reading.

"Going hunting?"

_Yeah_. The word he was looking for was _yeah_. It was right there in his mind. _Yeah_. But it wouldn't come out. He stared at her and nodded.

"Want some company?"

He felt just as surprised as she looked by his reaction. He didn't mean to be so brusque and rude, but for some reason the thought of spending any amount of time with her made him anxious. He didn't know why or where it came from. Didn't they used to spend time together back at the farm? Didn't she accompany him that night into the woods to look for Sophia? He didn't feel this anxiety then. Why was he feeling it now?

Hours later, it hit him like a ton of bricks, and the first word out of his mouth was, "_fuck_."

That afternoon, when he returned to the house, he saw her again and realized the difference was not the house, the area, or the group. It was him. It was her, too. He felt the difference every time she entered the room. He felt it when they were outside and the wind blew her hair in all sorts of directions, like a rainbow of white, yellow, and light brown. He felt the difference whenever she talked, when he began to notice the color of her eyes, the way she walked, the way she sat, how she talked, how she ate, when she smiled. Especially when she smiled. Just merely looking at her made the difference's presence known with a jab at his stomach and a nervousness in his chest.

He wanted it gone. He hated it, hated this whole... thing that was happening that he couldn't control, that he didn't even remember when it started. After all, he still believed they were living on borrowed time and knew that sooner or later either he would die, or she would, and he refused to put himself through that. He already got too attached once and it nearly killed him. He couldn't do it a second time. He knew he couldn't.

Not that it mattered, anyway. As far as he was concerned she didn't give two shits about him. She never would. And it's not like he was madly in love with her, hell, he barely even knew her. He figured it was just a crush, an attraction. And so the weeks of torture slowly melted into a puddle of stoic resignation. He would get over her eventually, and some day they would part ways and never see each other again (or die beforehand).

He just needed to stay on his toes, wait it out, and not let it grow.

So now he's standing on the porch and the group is gathered together telling stories about their past lives. Daryl doesn't participate, but a sort of curiosity takes over when T-Dog starts talking about relationships, and he hates himself when his hands twitch and his ears pique, waiting for the sound of her voice. He knows it's going to take time for this thing to subside, but it's frustrating, how his body is just _not_ cooperating.

She talks about an old flame who is probably dead by now but who Daryl hates anyway, and he feels a strange sense of satisfaction when Mr. Fancy Lawyer Piece of Shit turned out to provide a pathetic Five Minute Service in bed. Maggie giggles into her hand like a 12 year old and Glenn looks worried for a second, as if he's counting in his head, but then shakes his head and smiles. It's rare these days to see the group like this, and it's even rarer to hear her laugh. He realizes at that moment it's the first time he's ever heard her or seen her do so, and at the sight of her squinty eyes and perfect teeth the gap closes a little bit more.

Something in the air changes, though, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Daryl is about to reach for his crossbow when he realizes they aren't in danger. But something still feels odd. He feels exposed. For a few seconds he panics, wondering if maybe someone from the group caught him staring. But the group is still laughing at T-Dog's story about the woman he didn't know had a wooden leg until they were in bed together. Daryl looks around, still, because he's a hunter and he knows when something is off, and it's not until he spots Carl on the other side of the porch that he realizes the strange vibes are coming from him.

Daryl gives him a scowl, as if to say, _"shoo! Go on, git!"_ an expression he has mastered over the years and one that never fails to scare even the toughest son of a bitch away.

But he can't hide his surprise (and confusion) when Carl scowls back with the same intensity. Daryl's eyes widen a bit, and then he frowns.

_What. The hell?_

to be continued

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><p><em>Thanks, everyone, for your kind reviews! I really, really appreciate it. Next chapter: let the games begin.<br>_


	3. Chapter 3

**It's On**  
>by Leela<p>

The next morning, breakfast is weird as hell.

Daryl feels caught between the pull of Andrea's gravity and the intensity of Carl's disapproving eyes, and he struggles to understand just what in hell is going on. He's sure he's never even spoken two words to the child, and yet suddenly he's on the receiving end of some serious hate rays.

He wonders briefly if maybe, during those hazy months, he did something or said something to upset the kid. He does remember clashing with Rick on a few occasions. Not viciously, of course. Daryl has to admit, quite begrudgingly, he really doesn't have a problem with Rick. He has a problem with _Shane_, but Rick seems kind of alright. He's a bit naïve, a bit of a goody-two-shoes and way too optimistic. But though Daryl refuses to admit it out loud, Rick's optimism is, at times, a welcome respite from the gloom and negativity that have befallen upon the group.

And he knows there's _no way_ he could've _ever_ messed with Lori, whose growing stomach freaked him out in ways he couldn't explain. Growing up with a big brother like Merle, Daryl has had his fair share of encounters with angry pregnant women, and growing up with Merle, Daryl has learned what things you simply cannot say to a pregnant woman (_'are you the older sister, the younger sister, or the aunt? Cause y'all look the same from behind' _nearly cost Merle his life). Daryl has enough sense not to mess with Lori.

No, he can't think of a reason why Carl should be looking at him this way.

So he wonders for a moment... has he died? He wonders, briefly, if he's actually dead. Maybe one of those times he tempted fate back in Georgia came to fruition. Maybe he's actually dead and this is some sort of hellish afterlife: attracted to a woman who is way out of his league and being hated by some kid he's never even talked to.

He gets distracted, for a second, because Andrea spills coffee on her shirt. As Carol comes to her aid Daryl reminds himself to stay focused, because he can't just go about losing his concentration every time she moves. It probably isn't very safe, especially in this new world. So as she tries to clean the spot with a napkin he looks away, and in a moment of luck he manages to catch Carl looking at Andrea, and suddenly it all makes sense.

He almost laughs.

_Jesus_, he thinks, as Carl's eyes practically turn into beating hearts as he admires Andrea. Of _course_. The kid has a crush. Probably his first crush. Probably the first time ever he's looked at a girl and felt something in the pit of his stomach. He's grinning from ear to ear as he looks at her, like she's the most fascinating thing in the world, until Lori orders him to focus and finish his breakfast.

Daryl shakes his head. He can't blame the kid, really. As the days wear on and his own crush refuses to diminish, he becomes convinced that Andrea isn't just pretty. There's something about her that's ethereal and magnetic. Christ, the woman just rolls out of bed every day, no make-up, hair a wavy mess, and still manages to distract him every second that she's around.

So he can't blame Carl, really, and for a few moments, Daryl actually thinks it's cute. An 8 year old boy with his first crush. It's like some sort of Disney movie or Hallmark moment. Adorable and innocent and truly pure. He remembers being roughly that age and getting crushes on older women.

But then he frowns at the thought.

He remembers being roughly that age and getting crushes on older women. He remembers all the little tricks he used to roll up his sleeve: looking for silly excuses to get near them, touching them in inappropriate ways and getting away with it because he was 'just a kid', pretending he was upset and crying so they would hug him, grinning into their chests when they did...

_Aw, shit._

The cuteness instantly disappears _right_ out of the equation and he frowns at his half eaten breakfast. So that's why Carl hates him, he thinks. He's seen him looking at Andrea and the kid is jealous. Daryl has to admit, Carl might be the only reasonable member of the Grimes gene pool. It took Daryl himself months to figure out his attraction, and it only took Carl one minute. Pretty impressive for a kid. He also seems to think he actually has a chance with Andrea, which, normally, would make Daryl laugh, but he doesn't. Something about it is a little bit unsettling and he pushes his plate away as he loses his appetite completely.

But then he shakes his head. It doesn't matter, really. As far as he's concerned, Andrea isn't a pedophile and Carl is probably just bored. And really, he's not going to enter a pissing contest with some kid. He has more dignity than that.

Not to mention, Daryl isn't trying to start anything with Andrea, anyway, so it's all moot. He and Carl will get over their respective crushes eventually and things will go back to normal.

But the food on his plate stays untouched, he doesn't manage to catch a single squirrel, and spends the rest of the day holed up in his attic, trying to ignore this growing nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. By the time night comes, he fears he might rub his knuckle raw.

For his part, Carl is already a few steps ahead of Daryl, he thinks. After all, he's liked Andrea much longer than Daryl has. He's had longer to think about it. He's already decided he will wait for his mother to take her nap so he can go out and pick Andrea some flowers. Pretty blue and green ones to match her eyes. Maybe he will do it every day. He'll make her a card, too. A pretty red one, and he'll write her a poem inside. And he'll ask Carol to help him make her a meal with all her favorite foods, too. The list of things he wants to do for her goes on and on in his mind.

But first, he needs to put all these things in order. After all, he can't just give her a card right now, or ask her on a date straight away. It'll scare her. So he has to start a little low key.

Problem is, he doesn't know _how_ to start. He knows all the things he'll do for her and give her, but he doesn't know what his first move will be.

He needs reinforcements.

Hours later, he finds his dad and Shane out back, working on something for the house.

"Dad?" he asks hesitantly, and before he gets the chance to talk himself out of this, his dad and Shane quickly forget their tasks and look up. Carl frowns, suddenly unsure of himself.

"You okay, bud?"

Carl nods at Shane, but his attention returns to his father immediately. Rick takes on the hesitation in his son, his nervousness, and knows him well enough not to push, so he extends a hammer.

"You wanna help?"

Carl is always thankful for his dad. His dad is not like is mom, who is smothering and suffocating. His dad always knows the right things to do, the right things to say. So he accepts the hammer happily, relieved of the nervousness, and spends the next hour helping them build a makeshift door. He only half listens as Shane talks about all the landmarks around the area and how they can really make a living here. His dad seems equally eager and it's a relief, because his dad was so worried and stressed before they ended up here that Carl was scared he was going to get sick.

When the men decide to take a break, Carl finally musters up the courage to look at his father and ask,

"Dad, how did you get mom to fall in love with you?"

Shane laughs from where he's sitting, and Carl gives him a disapproving look. But Shane doesn't catch it, and he quickly jokes, "You got a little girlfriend we don't know about, man?"

"No," Carl says quickly, quite adamantly. A _little_ girlfriend. How ridiculous. Ew.

Besides, he doesn't like girls. He only likes Andrea.

But his dad is smiling too, not in the same condescending way Shane is, but in a more knowing way. "Well, um, I don't really think I did much," Rick laughs. "I guess we just spent a lot of time together. Got to know each other. The rest just kinda happened."

Carl frowns at the response, because it confuses him, makes it feel like this might be a bit more difficult than he previously thought. They finish the door and bring it to the house, secure it to T-Dog's room. The rest of the afternoon he just sits and thinks.

So the trick is to spend more time with Andrea. The thought makes him slightly nervous. When he thinks about her being his girlfriend he feels good, happy, and confident. But then when she's actually around, he tends to get a little nervous and fumbly with his words.

And despite having a plan, he's still worried. He's worried because Daryl is still around, and Daryl is much bigger and stronger than him. He remembers all those times his mom and Carol sat around the camp, back in Georgia, talking about all the soap opera actors they used to have crushes on, and they were all big and muscled like Daryl.

But if his dad says you get a girl to fall in love with you by spending time with her, then he doesn't have much to worry about. After all, Daryl mostly keeps to himself. He doesn't even spend time with the group. He's not spending any time with Andrea. Carl is. So she'll fall in love with him and not Daryl.

That night, as he lies in bed, a plan forms in his mind, and he grins.

to be continued

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><p><em>Again, thanks for the reviews. You guys are awesome. This chapter was actually supposed to be much longer, but I decided to split it in half because the flow was extremely off and it was annoying me. I apologize. But that also means the next chapter is pretty much finished. I just have to edit it. So expect it in the next couple of days.<em>


	4. Chapter 4

**It's On**  
>by Leela<p>

The next morning, Carl's spirits are lifted and he eats his breakfast with ferocious hunger. Daryl is there, but after a few minutes the man disappears into the woods with his crossbow, and Carl feels relieved. He needs to focus, and Daryl tends to make him both inexplicably irritable and strangely nervous at the same time. When everyone is done eating and dishes are being transferred to the sink, he approaches Andrea eagerly.

"Shane says there's a lake near here," he tells her, positively smitten with the smile she gives him as she looks down at him. "Can you teach me how to fish?"

Andrea looks up at Lori instantly, but before Lori can say anything, Carl adds, "you promised you would, remember?"

And Andrea does remember. She remembers that day Amy died, when they spent the whole morning fishing and bringing their catch back to the group. She remembers Carl asking them to teach him how to fish, and Amy enthusiastically promising him that she would. She's weary of Lori and weary of taking this responsibility, but it was Amy's promise, and she feels reluctant to break it.

"I don't know, sweetie, I don't know how far away this lake is," Andrea says.

"Just about a quarter mile," Shane chimes in, wiping grease from the corner of his mouth. "Can walk ya there, if you want?"

Once again Andrea looks at Lori, who seems to be weighing the pros and cons. Despite their accommodations the woman is still scared, Sophia's fate still weighing heavily in their hearts, but Andrea can tell Lori would welcome a morning to herself. Pregnancy must be exhausting, and Lori knows what a great shoot Andrea is. The best in camp.

Still, Andrea's surprised when Lori finally puts a hand on her shoulder, looking worried, but relenting. "Andrea, please just be really careful."

Andrea smiles at her. "Don't worry. It's gonna be fun, right?" she asks Carl, and he's so pleased and his heart feels so happy that he fears he's going to burst.

He goes with her to the RV, where Dale keeps his fishing equipment. He follows Shane and Andrea to this infamous lake, and Carl is happy to see it has a deck and everything (though no boat. Maybe the rich people who previously lived in this house sailed away).

He tries to pay attention to all the things Andrea is telling him - how to tie a knot, how to hook the bait - but she sits really close to him and she smells really good, and so he just grins and nods without taking any information in. This won't be the first fishing lesson, he figures, so he can just ask questions later. For now, he revels in the feel of her skin and her hair resting on his little shoulder as she leans over and fiddles with the knot she's showing him.

They sit in silence for a bit, because Andrea says if you're too loud it scares the fish. Carl admits to himself that he likes it better this way, because if they _were_ talking he still doesn't know what he would say to her. All the words and sentences play out neatly in his head, but for some reason they refuse to come out in the right order, or if at all. But this way is better. This way, they can sit and spend time together and he'll learn how to get rid of the nervousness he gets when she's around, before he can learn how to confidently talk to her.

It's genius, really.

So he relaxes, periodically throwing little glances at her whenever he can and committing every expression to memory. The days are cooling down and the leaves have turned orange and yellow. Every once in a while, the breeze will tug one of them away from its branch and it'll sway back and forth in the air before it lands on the water, creating a tiny ripple. Andrea must like this, because every time it happens a small smile grows into her features, and Carl decides fall might just be his favorite season (now that it no longer posed the threat of being dragged kicking and screaming back to school).

And he decides he loves fishing more than he actually thought he would. It's quiet, and nothing much happens most of the time, but it's nice to be able to sit and think without the hustle, noise and drama the adults are constantly creating. It really might be the first time he's felt any kind of peace since people started gnawing at each other hungrily, and the fact that he gets to share this peace with Andrea makes him feel, for the first time since he was convinced Sophia would return, that there really might be some kind of hope for them after all.

His reverie ends, however, when something tugs at his hook. His body snaps up and he lets out a high pitched, "whoa!"

Andrea raises her eyebrows. "Looks like you got one!"

Carl grins at her, and feels the fish start to give a bit of a fight. His smile wavers a bit, because as the seconds pass he feels the fish just might be a bit stronger than he can handle, and his muscles tense up as he uses all his strength to try and reel it in. He looks at Andrea for help, but she hasn't moved from her spot. His mom would've been all over him by now, sick with worry, quickly coming to his rescue, tears in her eyes. But Andrea just sits there, smiling.

"You can do it. Just relax," Andrea says gently. "Don't put too much effort into it just yet; let _him_ get tired first."

He does just as she says. He takes a deep breath and lets his muscles loosen up. It takes a little longer than he thought it would, but with Andrea's kind words of encouragement and his determination not to let her down, eventually the fish gives up the fight, and Carl reels it in effortlessly.

"_Wow_!" he shrieks when the fish finally emerges from the water. "Andrea, look!"

"That's a good one," Andrea says as she reaches for the net to catch the fish. It struggles a little bit between the threads, but eventually gives up the fight and stops breathing. She brings it in closer for inspection. "Looks like a Spot."

"I caught it! Did you _see_?" He's all energy, adrenaline rushing through his body and a grin so big his cheeks quickly begin to hurt, but he doesn't care. The fish lands in Andrea's bucket and he looks at it closely. He can't believe he actually did it, he caught a fish. And all by himself. Without Shane, without his dad, without his mom. He did it all by himself.

Andrea laughs at his enthusiasm. "You did an awesome job! High five."

He slaps her hand has to fight every urge in his body not to give her a giant hug. He has to remember he doesn't want to scare her. But he feels so pleased with himself, so happy that he made her proud, that he knows he probably won't get any sleep that night.

He looks down at the fish in the bucket again. "Can we eat it?"

"Of course we can," she says. "But we'll need a few more if we wanna feed the whole camp."

"Okay." He sits down and grabs the rod again, struggling to remember how to tie the knot and hook the bait. She helps him a little bit, and they resume their previous positions. It's much harder to concentrate now, with sparks of energy still bursting through his body, but eventually his breathing evens and his body relaxes (though his mind is still rushing).

Andrea catches a fish and reels it in with ease, and Carl is in awe of her strength. That's two. Two fish that they've caught between the pair of them. He's on cloud 9. He can't believe how well this is working. At this moment he feels incredibly connected to her, like they were always meant to have a special bond. He's been dreaming about this day for a while now, but even in his dreams it never goes as well as this.

But then, he hears something rustle behind him. Andrea must hear it, too, because she quickly puts her fishing rod down and reaches for her gun. However, when she turns around she lowers it quickly and sighs.

"Jesus, Daryl," she breathes as Daryl emerges from the bushes, looking at them suspiciously. "You scared the crap out of me."

Daryl approaches the duo, his weary eyes on Carl, who is _not_ looking pleased by his inopportune entrance.

Christ, this kid. He ignores him and looks at Andrea. "Ya shouldn't be out here by yourself."

"I'm not by myself," Andrea says as she smiles at the calm water. "Carl's protecting me."

Carl brightens up once again, and turns around to show Daryl a big, cocky smile.

Daryl frowns at him. _Little shit._

"What'cha all doing, anyway?"

"I'm teaching Carl how to fish," Andrea says. "I think people are getting sick of eating canned food all the time."

"That so," Daryl asks, and before he realizes it his legs continue to guide him to them until he's on the deck. His mind isn't pleased by this.

Nor is Carl. He turns around and frowns at Daryl. "You don't have to stay. Andrea shoots better than you, anyway."

_Oh hell no,_ Daryl thinks as he sneers and tries _really_ hard to stop himself from wrapping his hands around the little shit's neck and flinging him right into the middle of the lake to watch him drown.

Daryl narrows his eyes at him. "Maybe I feel like catching some fish, too."

"You can join us, if you want." Andrea smiles at him, oblivious of the tension between them, and returns her attention to the water.

Daryl looks from her to Carl. Carl frowns at him. Daryl frowns back. Carl's nostrils flare. Daryl's, as well. The two mentally square off for a few seconds, until Daryl shakes his head and tries to even his breathing to cool his tempers.

No, seriously, he is _not_ going to do this. He is _not_ going to get jealous of some shitty kid. He's not going to fall into this nonsense, no matter how much it pulls him, he is not going to let it. He's a grown ass man and he's not going to play silly games with some kid over the affections of a woman he's desperately trying to get out of his head.

_Just walk away_, a voice inside his head tells him. Let Carl dream all he wants. Let him be. He's just a kid with a crush and there are bigger things to worry about. And really, like Carl has a chance, anyway. Kid is a complete mama's boy with freaking Sheriff Woody for a father and by the looks of his gait-

He shakes his head again. _Fuck_, not like _he_ has a chance either. Not like he _wants_ one. Christ, what the hell is going on? Why are these people so toxic? Didn't he used to be the meanest son of a bitch in town? Didn't he used to laugh at all this sentimental bullshit? When did everything change so drastically?

It has to be them. It _has_ to be. Dale is possibly hiding a little Daryl shaped voo-doo doll in the back of his RV and probably takes it out every morning and gives it hugs and kisses. It's the only explanation for the change in his behavior, because it's exactly what it feels like. Like he's some damn puppet and the puppeteer is making him do things and feel things that otherwise he wouldn't do or feel.

_Goddamn Dale._

Daryl turns around as he hears steps behind him, and sees Lori and Shane emerging from the bushes. Lori's got that mom look on her face, her hands resting on her bulging stomach. She ignores Daryl and shouts to her son,

"Carl, come on, it's time for your lesson."

Daryl thought he had just witnessed an angry Carl, but that Carl was nothing compared to the one who turned around now and shouted back, "Not _now_, mom!"

But that Carl is still no match for angry, hormonal Lori. "Right _now_, young man! Come on!"

Daryl has to look down to fight a smirk. God bless Lori and her cock-blocking timing.

"It's okay, Carl," Andrea says. "We'll do it again soon."

This seems to calm Carl down a little bit, but he's still looking annoyed as he puts his rod down and stands up, picking up his father's hat and bringing it with him.

As Carl walks by him, Daryl can't help it. He gives him a big cocky smile, and the child sneers at him and follows his mother and Shane back the way they came from. Daryl smirks as he watches them leave.

But then the minute Carl is gone, Daryl freezes. He realizes after a moment that Andrea is looking at him, expecting him to sit down and pick up where Carl left off. He kinda feels like leaving, doesn't know if he can handle this so soon. Besides, he's trying to get over her, and staying will jeopardize that. But he can't leave her here alone, either. She can get hurt.

_Fuck_.

After a few moments, he reluctantly takes his shoes off and sits down, sinking his legs into the cool water.

Only he miscalculates his landing and ends up sitting too close to her. Not touching, but still close enough to make him feel uncomfortable, exposed; like if she wanted to, she could read his whole life in his face and posture. She stares at the water instead, like she's not even aware that he's there, and though she barely moves he's still a little overwhelmed by the amount of energy that radiates from her body. It makes him uneasy, and he feels a consuming need to start biting his nails, but he tries to stay still. He's sure he looks like an idiot, sitting there paralyzed while a thousand voices in his mind are screaming at him to run.

He doesn't know what he hates more, this ridiculous situation or the fact that Carl is a better ladies' man than he is.

_Don't be a bitch_, his mind tells him. _You're just fishing. No different from hunting. Just pretend she's not there._ He does (or tries) and after a few moments his body finally begins to relax.

Luckily, fishing is a quiet affair. And as it turns out, rather humiliating. Andrea reels in fish after fish with such finesse and expertise, throwing their lifeless bodies into a bucket she must've found back at the house.

There's another bucket that sits next to him. Daryl looks at it – it's completely empty. His eyebrows furrow, and Andrea tries to be discreet as she quickly glances at it as well, failing to hide the curve of an amused smile.

Daryl frowns. "Ain't used to these fancy rods."

She breathes a chuckle, barely audible. "I didn't say anything."

He wants to be mad, really, but in a way it _is_ kinda funny, since _he's_ supposed to be the hunter. And though he knows admitting this makes him sink deeper into this shit, he does enjoy making her smile (even if he only seems to be able to do it at the expense of his ego). He lets himself smile at the situation as well (this once, just this once), and he feels a chunk of the haze lift and get carried away by the breeze.

It's only then that he notices the leaves have changed colors, that he's no longer uncomfortable or sweating. He notices that the sun is now lower in the sky and finally understands that the reason why he's not catching that many ducks is because they are all beginning to migrate south.

It punches him in the stomach with a hard blow. When did fall sneak up on him like this? What else has he missed?

Where the hell has he been this whole time?

He gets distracted again when Andrea reels in another fish. It struggles in her bucket for a few seconds, and then dies. Daryl tries to stay quiet for his own benefit (the less he knows about her, the better). His mouth, however, isn't very cooperative.

"How'd you get so good, anyway?"

She stays quiet, and he thinks either the words didn't actually come out, or she doesn't feel like talking to him. His lack of self-esteem decides it's the latter, and he swallows the disappointment with pride. But when he looks at her she's smiling at the water, really smiling, like she's seeing something that isn't there. Daryl's actually surprised when she starts to talk.

"It's pretty much what we lived on for most of my childhood," she says, and when he gives her a questioning look she embellishes further. "My parents - they were 15 when they had me. My grandparents wanted nothing to do with us, thought my mom was a disgrace. We were pretty much on our own, but we lived near the Glades. My dad built this crappy little boat out of nothing and would take me fishing so we could put food on the table."

Daryl listens, and begins to feel uncomfortable once again. The moment, the softness in her voice, it feels strangely... intimate, and he wonders how or why she trusts him enough to tell him this.

_She doesn't trust you, dumbass. She's only telling you because you asked. _

"We used to sell it, too," she continues, a bit brightly now. "To the local markets. I think I was 2 or 3. I used to follow him around all day from store to store. Most of them would turn us down, and the ones that didn't always took advantage, but it helped us keep our crappy little place. Eventually one of the owners hired him as a stock boy. He was really hard working, my dad. Always doing whatever he could to bring money back for my mom and I. He ended up taking over the store when the owner died. I think Amy must've been 4. She didn't really have it that bad."

At the mention of her sister Daryl notices her eyes sadden a little bit, but he says nothing. He thinks about Merle, for just a second, but then pushes him out of his mind.

"By the time she came along fishing wasn't a necessity anymore, just a hobby. For me it'd been a livelihood. For her it was just fun."

Daryl soaks all this information in, and it doesn't help at all to alleviate these symptoms. For as long as he's known her, he always imagined she was one of those uppity popular girls, with expensive clothes, walking around in her little cheerleader outfit, showing off the new car daddy bought her for her 16th birthday. A prom queen. One of those girls who used to look down on him for his dirty clothes and feral disposition.

Now he sees a scrawny little girl in tattered clothes, with messy blonde hair, sitting quietly in the back of the class. He sees the other kids calling her names because she reeks of working class. He wonders if that little girl would've been friends with the feral little boy who was looked down upon by everyone as well. He wonders if she would've given him a chance.

Maybe, maybe not.

He'll never really know.

It doesn't matter.

After a long silence, he says, "Always pegged ya for some fancy city girl."

Andrea chuckles softly. "I had to work my ass pretty hard to get there."

He nods, swallowing that information as well, and returns his attention to the water. Something feels different again, and after a moment he realizes his shoulders are slouched and his muscles no longer feel tense. This one is a different feeling, not overwhelming, not scary. He feels... comfortable. At ease. No longer nervous. No longer on alert. It's weird.

But he feels like... it's a good thing. Maybe. Perhaps he just needs to get used to being around her and this whole thing will go away. Maybe it'll fade or dissolve into some kind of friendship. Maybe that's the key. Maybe he just needs to spend more time around her. Maybe if he does, he'll finally see that she's not perched up on some sort of golden pedestal. That he doesn't need to be nervous around her. That she's just a girl and this fixation has nothing to do with _her_, but with that impromptu touch that caught him so off guard.

It might work. After all, trying to stay away from her only seems to make things worse. You have to confront your fears, he's always heard people say. Maybe if he confronts these weird feelings they'll finally leave him in peace.

He feels confident for the first time in weeks, but doesn't have much time to dwell on it, because something tugs at his line.

"Ooh."

Andrea turns to him. "Got one?"

"Mm," he grunts. "Big one, too."

His lips form a tight, tense line as he struggles with the fish. His muscles contract and nearly double in size as he stands up on the deck to get a better advantage.

Andrea reels her line in and puts her rod down. "Need help?"

"Nah, I got it," Daryl says, and really does curse at this stupid fancy rod. He's really not used to these things. The fish puts on a hell of a fight, and several moments Daryl thinks he might lose it. But after a few minutes of struggling he feels the fish weaken for the first time, and he takes the opportunity to tug as hard as he can.

"Holy... carp?" Andrea says as Daryl pulls the fish towards them with such force that it practically flies through the air and she has to take cover before it lands on the deck with a giant thud. Immediately it begins to flail about, but Daryl puts his foot over it, takes out his knife and guts the fish in the head.

Andrea approaches the fish, admiring its massive body. She looks at Daryl. "Well, I think this pretty much makes us even."

He smiles, actually smiles showing teeth and all, feeling a great sense of accomplishment and pride. It troubles him a bit, but it's probably some sort carry over primal instinct, he thinks. Just the caveman in him trying to impress the opposite sex. It sounds terrible in his head, but it's the only way he can rationalize it.

After all, these feelings have nothing to do with her.

With a grunt he leans down and flings the giant fish over his shoulder, casting a glance at her full bucket. "Think we got enough?"

"Too much." Andrea gathers all the equipment, picks up her bucket, and the two begin to walk back. "Most of it is probably going to go to waste."

"We can make jerky with it," Daryl suggests. "Store it for the winter."

She looks at him as they walk, confused. "You can make jerky with fish?"

He smiles at the reappearance of the fancy city girl.

They bring their catch back to the house, and the others are delighted. Everyone but Carl, Daryl notices, but he ignores the little boy and helps Carol clean, gut, and fabricate the fish.

That night, they all eat until their stomachs feel like they're about to pop. They laugh as they tell more stories, and for the first time since he's met this group, Daryl actually listens. He notices T-Dog is actually kind of funny, and finally understands why the others always prod at him to regale them with tales of his past.

He notices the way Maggie fusses over Glenn, almost as much as Lori fusses over Rick, the two women wiping away at the little grease that hangs on the corners of their husbands' mouths.

He notices Shane tenses up every time he sees this, though not as much as he used to, and he notices that Carol is smiling, actually _smiling_, her eyes squinting as everyone laughs. He notices the way Dale is constantly looking at everything, as if he could read their thoughts, and he makes a mental note not to make too much eye contact with the old man. At least until this he overcomes this thing.

And he notices the way the lights from candles catch the million different shades of yellow in Andrea's hair when she laughs so hard that her body tilts to the right. He notices how much... bigger she seems now. Not physically, but something about her disposition has changed over the past few months and he must've been too knee deep in his haze to notice. She seems more confident now, stronger, so... alive. He thinks back to those weeks after Amy died. Andrea wasn't really in his radar much, not back then, but he does remember her being such a shrinking violet; not really living at all, just... barely there.

She's not like that anymore, and a part of him regrets having missed this transformation (though he's also glad he did).

"This is the best meal I've had in... God, I can't even remember," Lori says, picking at the remains of her fish.

"It really is," Rick says between mouthfuls. "Andrea, thank you so much."

"I can't take all the credit," Andrea says as she blushes slightly. "I had some great help."

Both Carl and Daryl perk up immediately, but then they each notice the others' reactions, and their bodies sag again.

"Did you try the carp?" she continues.

"Oh my God, it's amazing," Maggie says, sinking her fork into another fillet and dragging it to her plate.

"You should've seen Daryl catch that thing," Andrea says. She catches his eyes from across the table and smiles, and Daryl has to remind himself again: _this thing, it has nothing to do with her. You don't even know her._ "It put on a hell of a fight."

"I don't like it," Carl says bitterly from where he's sitting next to his mother. He makes a face at the fish. "Tastes like _mud_."

Andrea chuckles and begins to tell the group about the dietary habit of carps and how it affects the way they taste, but Carl isn't listening and neither is Daryl. Their eyes are locked on each other and the intensity behind Carl's expression nearly knocks Daryl off his center, but he stands his groud and matches it with his own Dixon scowl. He knows what the kid is trying to do, insult his fish as a way of insulting _him_, to put him down in front of Andrea. The kid is playing dirty and Daryl feels the frustration bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

The voice is trying to remind him again to let it go. He's just a kid. A kid. But he can't hear it anymore. He's having none of this. He might go down in flames, get humiliated, hurt, or banished, but this kid needs to be taken down. He might have an angry, pregnant Lori come after his ass after it's all over, but he doesn't care anymore.

This is fucking war.

to be continued

* * *

><p><em>Christ, this was way longer than I intended. I've a lot of school work in the next week or so, so I don't know when the next part will be up. But I'll try to work on it as often as I can. Again, thanks for the reviews!<br>_

_Anea the Morwinyon - I don't know how old Carl is supposed to be on the show. In the comics, he's 6 when the apocalypse begins and he's 8 now (or he thinks he's 8). I'm going with 8 cause it's kind of an age where you're still a little innocent and cute but you can also be a sneaky little bastard._


	5. Chapter 5

**It's On**  
>by Leela<p>

The next morning, Daryl's spirits are lifted and he eats his breakfast with a hunger he hasn't felt in quite some time.

(Much to Carol's delight.)

Carl continues to shoot hate rays at him, but he ignores the little pest and concentrates on his plan. For the first time since he became aware of these strange feelings he feels like he might actually find some peace of mind soon. He'll hang around her for a few days, put up with her mindless city talk, realize they are much too different, and move on quickly.

He feels confident. He knows eventually she will say or do something stupid that will turn him off.

He knows this for sure.

(It's not about her, after all. It's just about the moment. His knuckle burns slightly at the memory of it.)

Echoes of Merle's and his father's voices resonate inside his mind, and he clings to their misogynistic convictions with ferocious strength. It's all he knows, after all. And he knows eventually this whole thing will end just as quickly as it started.

For Christ sake, she's blonde. She's bound to be stupid and ditzy. She might even shoot him again, and he'll hang on to the anger and reproach like a lifesaver.

It has to work. It really _has_ to, because he hates feeling this way, feeling so... open, like someone has cut him deeply and he is spilling all over the place, exposed and unguarded. It's not him. This has never been him, and he needs to put himself back together desperately, or else he feels like he might just slip away and disappear into this strange unknown and become someone he doesn't want to be.

After breakfast, he crawls into his attic to retrieve his crossbow and rifle. She's in the porch when he walks outside, speaking with Dale.

Daryl freezes.

He was up most of the night, planning the events of this day. Meticulously. But he never counted on Dale being around. Dale. Fucking _Dale_. The only person in camp who seems to know _everything_ without actually doing any kind of investigating. All Dale has to do is look at you, just _look_ at you, then his nostrils flare and he just... _knows_.

_Nostrildamus_, Daryl likes to call him in his head.

It throws him off. She's there and he wants to move forward with his plan, but Dale's presence makes him feel vulnerable, self-conscious, like the old man can see through him by sheer glance.

The voice in his head screams. _He's a stupid old man. Just get the fuck on with it. Just do it. Just go!_

"Hey, uh," he begins, and his voice is unsteady and weak, but he can't go back now. "You wanna... learn... hunting?"

Her eyebrows furrow. She looks confused. _Shit_.

Daryl's eyes drift to Dale and he looks away quickly. The old man already has that 'your strength is no match for my meddling powers, young Jedi' look, and the speech he has been rehearsing all morning is erased from his memory. He gets nervous, feeling his confidence dissolve.

Luckily, Merle is right there to back him up.

_Just **say** something, dumbass! Piece of shit.  
><em>

He tries again. "D'you wanna learn? To hunt? Thought ya wanted to."

"Oh," Andrea finally exclaims as she understands his question. She looks at Dale, and back at Daryl, like she's torn between getting the old man's approval and trying to decide on her own. "Right now?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "S' good a time as any."

She looks at Dale again, and the old man merely nods. "If you feel like you can. Couldn't hurt to have two hunters in the camp."

The old man voices this in a way that almost sounds like a challenge, or at least it appears that way to her, and in her true nature Andrea just can't let a challenge pass. So she stands up resolutely. "Okay. Um, let me get my gun."

She disappears into the house quickly, and then it's just him and Dale, and Daryl doesn't know what the fuck to do. The old man is looking at him like he knows something, The Nostrils of Knowledge already flaring, and Daryl's disposition quickly shrivels like a prune before he forces himself to harden up and confront Dale with his most stern frown.

"I'll, uh—" he mutters, his right shoulder quickly jerking towards the woods behind him.

Dale smiles. "I'll tell her."

Daryl sneers, turns around and begins to walk towards the line of trees.

_Goddamn Dale, _he thinks._ Stupid people. Stupid camp. Why can't they just mind their own business?_

As soon as he reaches the edge of woods, he stops and waits. He expects her to show up within seconds, but it doesn't happen. He throws a glance towards the house, but it's still just Dale sitting in the porch, looking out. Daryl doesn't know what's taking her so long, but he files this moment into the folder in his mind labeled Reasons To Get Over Andrea, and he feels more confident when her scrawny ass finally emerges from the house.

She joins him seconds later, her green messenger bag hanging off her shoulder, and Daryl acknowledges her with a nod. He begins walking, her presence at his heel, and it makes him feel off center. But before long he loses himself into the woods, into the hunt, like he's often prone to. It gives him a great sense of satisfaction, having her so close and still being able to immerse himself into this task. It gives him hope. It makes him feel like he will get over this someday.

It is possible. He can do this. She's right there next to him but he feels relaxed. He feels like Daryl.

Moments pass. Seconds, minutes, hours... he doesn't know. He's in his element, and though her presence sometimes dabs at his core like a flickering light in the darkness (when his mind dangerously wanders), he's still lost in the hunt.

But as he fails to find a trail the calm slowly dissolves, until her presence becomes a _thing_ and he can't ignore it any longer. He throws a discreet glance at her, one she doesn't catch, and he begins to doubt the proficiency of his plan.

After all, he's supposed to be _teaching_ her how to hunt, and so far he hasn't said a word to her.

He's never really been a good teacher. Well, he supposes he's never tried. Not particularly a chatter box, either, more so when she's around and he doesn't know what in the hell to say, mainly fearing he'll give himself away. So he doesn't say anything and merely leads by example.

But Andrea doesn't seem to be the _learn by example_ type, and after a while she catches up to him with a short jog.

"Um, Daryl?" She sounds unsure, tentative, whispering as she looks down at the ground.

His face turns slightly towards her but his eyes remain ahead. "Yeah?"

A short silence precedes his question, like she's not sure what to say or how to say it. After a moment, she turns slightly towards him. "Are we hunting yet?"

"No."

"Okay," Andrea says. She tries to conform to his answer, but her unsatisfying curiosity takes the best of her and she opens her mouth again. "What are we doing, then?"

He frowns. Chatter and hunting. Doesn't seem right. "Tryin' to find a trail."

"Oh."

She doesn't say anything else, and Daryl is starting to think maybe this was a bad idea. He feels like hunting is a natural skill, something you're born with. Truthfully, he's not really sure she'll learn anything, didn't think she would even want to. He thought she would be the type to break a nail after the first 10 minutes and run home crying to wash the dirt out of her pretty, pretty hair.

But as he throws a quick glance at her, he realizes she seems genuinely curious. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she looks at the ground, as if she's trying to see something but she doesn't know exactly what it is.

He shakes his head, his mind telling him to keep his mouth shut and just abort this plan, but like hell he's going to let her start developing bad habits. Hunting is sacred to him.

"Don't look at the ground unless ya have to," he says, and Andrea turns to him with a questioning look. He adds, "If ya look down you're missing everything around you. That's how people get lost. Keep your eyes everywhere. The trees, the bushes, the sun... that's how you find your way back."

Andrea frowns at the ground. "I don't wanna trip and fall."

"Ya won't," Daryl says. "And if you do, just get up. You need your eyes more than anything else. If they're too busy lookin' down you ain't gonna see much else."

Another silence as she digests his words.

"I thought we were trying to find a trail."

"Trails ain't always on the ground," Daryl says. "Animals piss in bushes. Bucks rub their antlers on trees to attract does and mark their territory. Ya keep looking down, you're gonna miss all that."

She nods, and when he looks at her she's smiling, like she's _enjoying_ this. Old Daryl finds satisfaction in this, is glad to have someone who seems interested in hunting. He has nothing in common with these people, and sometimes the loneliness crawls too close.

New Daryl doesn't like it. Not in the _least_.

"Look," he says, pointing at the ground. "What's that?"

Andrea scrunches her nose at the sight. "Shit."

"Deer," he says as he looks around, as if the creature could appear at any moment.

"How can you tell?"

"They shit in pellets," Daryl says and Andrea makes a face. "The color, too. Plenty of fig around here. And the texture—"

"No, _please_ don't touch it!" Andrea shakes her head quickly, a look of horror on her face.

He looks at her and can't help feeling amused. "Part of bein' a hunter."

"Not one yet."

"Ya will be."

Andrea shakes her head. "Not full time and if so then... no, Daryl, I won't be touching any shit. I mean, I can tell it's dry just looking at it. I don't have to touch it. I mean, I'm never gonna go hunting without you. I'll never be that good. And you don't seem to mind, right? So can I just leave that duty to you?"

She looks at him with big pleading blue eyes and he almost laughs at her.

"Please, Daryl? I don't like poop."

The corner of his mouth turns slightly upwards as he walks away from the pile of droppings. (_Women_, he thinks).

"Okay, so there's a deer around," Andrea sighs.

"Nah," Daryl says, squinting his eyes. "It's too old. 12 hours at least."

"We could still track it."

"Ya ain't ready yet," Daryl says and looks into the distance. "Start ya off with something smaller. Look."

Andrea follows his gaze. There's a large squirrel stuck to the side of a tree. She frowns. "Ah, crap."

"Aim for the head," Daryl tells her as she reaches for her gun.

She sees the squirrel through the scope, its furry little nose twitching. She remembers all the squirrels she used to feed at the park, back when the world was still normal and she'd take her lunch by to sit under her favorite tree. Little squirrels would come by and grab pieces of bread from her hands before running away quickly.

The fond memory makes her falter.

The squirrel twitches its nose again and its head turns towards her, making eye contact. Andrea grimaces, it's too much, and she finally lowers her gun with a sigh. "I can't do it."

She looks at him apologetically, like she expects him to be mad at her. He nods calmly. "First one's always hard. Don't think about it."

"It's too cute."

"Just a rat with a fancy tail."

She repeats the words in her head. _Just a rat with a fancy tail._ Just a rat. Just a rodent. It's not a main character in a Disney movie. It's food.

It's food.

She takes aim again. The squirrel hasn't moved from its position and she feels a small wave of nausea right before she pulls the trigger. She closes her eyes before the squirrel drops to the ground, dead, and she wonders how the hell she's going to deal with shooting a bigger animal.

Before she can say anything, Daryl is running ahead, collecting the dead squirrel and bringing it to her by the tail. "This one's yours."

She makes a face when he tries to tie its carcass to her belt. "Daryl!"

"You kill something, you bring it back," he says as he finishes. "You kill a deer, you carry it back to camp. Ain't nothing to be disgusted about. It's just blood and guts."

"_Just_ blood and guts?"

He looks at her incredulously. "I seen you manhandle walkers. That's rotten corpses. What's so bad about a fresh dead squirrel? Good lord."

He's right, and the realization hits her like a slap in the face. She's shot a lot of walkers, but she's wrestled a lot of them, too, stabbed them, collected their bodies afterwards, dragged them everywhere, gotten their blood on her hands and everywhere else...

It hits her quickly and she smiles, realizing a dead squirrel is nothing compared to handling decomposed human bodies. As she does so she begins to stand tall, feeling a weird sense of pride every time the dead animal bumps against her thigh.

(It's a morbid thought but hell, they're living in a morbid world now.)

This squirrel... it won't feed the whole camp. It might not even feed a whole person (maybe half of Carl), but it's food. It's nourishment. It's one more day that someone in their family won't go hungry.

The next squirrel is much easier to kill, and after the third she stops thinking about it. Daryl watches, trying to keep an emotional distance. There's something mesmerizing, however, about watching her shoot, almost as if the gun is an extension of her arm, another one of her fingers. She looks calm as she pulls the trigger, and he wonders if she ever had to save his life during all those months his mind was gone and his body was still here, tempting fate.

She falters again when she has to shoot a large rabbit, but he talks her through it and she takes the shot. He takes out a few more squirrels with his crossbow, and when he starts to think they might have enough for a few more days, everything dies down. No squirrels, no quails, no rabbits, and the thought of not having enough food for the winter keeps him going.

He looks over at Andrea. She looks tired, but he knows she's not gonna wanna call it quits if he makes the suggestion, stubborn as she is.

"Ya doing alright?"

Andrea squints at the sun. "I'm wearing a tiki skirt made out of dead squirrels."

Daryl smirks. "If we stick ya on the dashboard of the RV you can do a little dance."

She smiles and shakes her head. "Funny."

"Let's take a break," he says, and the crossbow hits the ground before he does, crossing his legs beneath him.

"Okay," Andrea says with a satisfied sigh, letting her bag drop before her legs crumble beneath her. She reaches into her bag and produces a bottle of water, and when she throws it at him he catches it with ease, unscrews the cap, and drowns half its content in a single gulp. Andrea's right brow furrows at this (_men_, she thinks), but she continues to dig into her bag until she finds two squares of tinfoil.

She presents one of them to him. "I made us some sandwiches."

She offers him a perfectly, neatly wrapped bundle, and Daryl looks at it strangely for a moment before he snorts incredulously.

Her smile dissolves. "_What_?" she says defensively.

He shakes his head and grabs it. "Nothin'."

Andrea frowns at him. "What were we supposed to _eat_? Bark?"

Daryl unwraps his sandwich. Even the crust is cut off. Good Lord. He's never seen such a ridiculous thing. "Ya eat what you hunt or gather."

"I'm not gonna _eat_ raw squirrel," she says. She looks at him, keeps her eyes on him, and he shakes his head once more as he takes a bite, a look of arrogance and incredulity adorning his features.

Andrea huffs crabbily. "_WHAT_?"

Daryl smirks. "Ya made goddamn _sandwiches_."

She looks at him still, but her hardened expression dissolves into a smile as she, too, finds the humor in the situation. She looks at her own sandwich. It's wrapped so neatly that it almost looks like a Christmas present. The only thing missing is a pretty red bow or maybe a loving note from mommy. What possessed her to do this? But it seemed so logical at the time, she hadn't even thought about it.

She ducks her head and rolls her eyes. "Sorry I'm not that guy from Man vs. Wild."

"Who?"

"I don't know," she says and takes a bite from her sandwich, her stomach growling loudly at the smell of it.

Daryl is already almost done with his, and there's a playfulness in his voice when he adds, "Ya baked cupcakes, too?"

"Shut up," she says as she tosses him her balled up tinfoil, hitting him in the chest. He tosses it aside and feels lighter and less troubled than before as a new thought hits him.

Maybe she _can_ be his friend. Daryl thinks he would like that. Maybe. After all, Rick and Shane are cops and cops and Daryl just don't go together (no matter how much he's grown to respect Rick - you don't ever trust a cop). Glenn seems scared of him half the time, Dale is just Dale, Lori... no, he's not even gonna go there, and Carol was more motherly than buddy-buddy. That left Andrea, and as he sits there with her, surprised by the lack of awkwardness in the silence, he thinks all he has to do is get out of this mess he's created for himself and maybe, maybe they could be friends.

He thinks he'd like that. _Maybe_.

As she eats her sandwich he ties all the dead animals together. Easier to drag them on his back and let her do the rest of the shooting. Andrea finally finishes her sandwich and the rest of her water.

"Alright, Martha Stewart. Let's get going," he says as she stands up.

Andrea cocks her head to the side and scrunches her nose at the comment. "Come on, at least give me Julia Child."

Daryl follows her as they begin to walk. "Ya made sandwiches, alright? Not a five course meal."

"Fine," she says begrudgingly. "Just don't call me Rachael Ray."

"Ya ain't that bad."

They return to the camp that evening with two dozen squirrels and several other animals.

Dale is still sitting in the porch, and he stands up when he sees them approach. He has a relieved look on his face, Daryl notices, like he's just seen his little girl come home unharmed from her first play date. "How'd it go?"

"Can't talk. Need shower," Andrea says as she walks by him and into the house.

Dale turns to Daryl and Daryl avoids eye contact. God, it's like facing The Southern Oracle.

"How did she do?"

"She ain't bad," Daryl mutters as he drags the dead animals around the side of the house and out back. He spends the next hour or two skinning them, with Carol next to him preparing a solution of brine for preservation.

He contemplates the events of the day in his mind, and decides he feels better now than he did before. He still felt a pang of... something in his stomach where she is concerned, but he also saw a light at the end of the tunnel. Their time in the woods had even been... enjoyable, something Daryl hasn't experienced in quite some time. There were some warning signs still there, mainly the fact that he still couldn't quite figure her out. He had roles in his mind for all these people, the cops, the wives and girlfriends, the mother, the father, the kids...

There's no role in his mind for Andrea. She doesn't fit into any stereotype. She's like a big puzzle he's trying to put together and he's sure there's pieces missing, and the more his mind tells him to forget and move on, the more he feels like he needs to figure her out. Because once he does he'll be able to give her a role, _friend_, _sister_, _whatever_, and he'll keep her there at arms length like he does with the rest of them.

He just needs to overcome this thing that has taken a hold of him.

That night, Carol prepares rabbit stew and the gang seems in good spirits once more. Daryl eats his dinner quietly, wondering why there's so much laughter and good camaraderie now. Surely it had something to do with the food, but something about it still unsettles him. He didn't grow up with a family, not really. Dinner was usually a bowl of Walmart brand cereal or whatever he could steal from the store.

This is entirely different. This is people laughing and having a good time and bonding. So much has changed, he realizes, though he still refuses to take part of it and merely sits there watching. He doesn't know how to be like them.

Something hasn't changed, though. Carl still hates him. He can tell by the way the kid sits there, flicking away at his food because of what it represents.

But Carl isn't out of the race yet. Not by a long shot. Daryl may have spent time with Andrea all day, but Carl spent time exploring the giant house. The looters had taken all the food, but the kids' rooms were mostly left untouched. His room didn't have anything of interest, though he knew by the toys it had belonged to a little boy, but the pink and yellow room next to his had obviously belonged to a little girl who'd been an avid reader.

And so, after everyone has eaten and few people begin to retrieve to their bedrooms, he approaches Andrea with a book in his hand.

"Can you read me a story?"

Shane chuckles. "Carl, man, you're too old for that shit."

Andrea frowns at him. "Language!" She brings Carl closer to her body, and Daryl's nostrils flare. Andrea looks down at the book Carl is holding. It's the first issue of Harry Potter. She smiles and traces the cover with her fingers. "Amy loved this."

"We never got to read it," Lori says with a smile.

Andrea looks at Lori. "Oh, _you_ should-"

"No, it's okay," Lori says, "you're someone important to us, too."

Andrea smiles understandingly, almost tears up at the suggestion. In this new world there are no more traditions, no more rules, no more structure. Biologically, Rick and Lori are Carl's family, but there's no biology anymore. In this new world, they are _all_ his family. They are his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, his aunties and uncles, everything he's got. And Andrea smiles and feels honored when Lori lets her start her own traditions with the small child.

So without a second thought she follows the little boy to his bedroom. His bed is one of those race car beds and he jumps in quickly, crawling under the covers. Andrea crawls in after, holding the book and hugging Carl close to her. He eagerly nestles himself into her chest, reveling in her clean smell.

"You ready?" she asks him and he grins and nods. She clears her throat.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense..."

Carl grins as she continues to read, and he wonders if he'll get any sleep tonight. The combination of Andrea and Harry Potter is just too enticing and wonderful, and he presses his cheek closer to her chest.

It's not long before he starts to feel tired, though, sluggish and sleepy, and he can't wait to be old enough to stay awake longer. He tries, but before they even make it to chapter two his head rolls onto her chest and he falls asleep. The minute he does Andrea closes the book and leaves it on his night stand. Being as careful as she can, she tries to extricate herself from Carl, but he holds on to her stronger in his sleep.

She sighs, knowing she'll probably have to sleep there tonight unless she can get away without waking him. She lays back with him and waits for his sleep to deepen, and as she does she runs her hand through his hair. He's still young enough that he smells like grass, toy trucks, little boys and playgrounds and happy birthday parties.

It shocks her when she feels something she's never felt before in the pit of her stomach.

Daryl's on his way to the attic when he sees her. He stops, his first instinct to go in there and choke that precocious child. But then she wipes the corner of her eye with the palm of her hand he feels another piece of the puzzle go missing.

In reality he only looks in on her for a moment, but the moment stretches forever in his mind, so long that it feels like years pass before he reminds himself he should just keep walking because it's obvious she needs privacy.

But before he does he finds the piece and puts it right where it belongs in the puzzle. She looks like a mother there. She looks like a woman holding her child. Except, Carl is not her child. Carl will never be her child.

Andrea will never have a child.

That's the pain he recognizes in her eyes. He can't hate Carl at that moment, because at that moment Carl's sleeping form is providing her a comfort she desperately needs that no one can give her.

She'll never be a mom. She'll never have a happy wedding or a fairy tale husband. She'll never have children, never have her own family. No birthday parties, no early Christmas mornings, no sticky hands that hold hers, no tiny little voices that call her 'mommy'.

Daryl's never going to be a dad. But he's known this since he was a child. He just can't fathom the idea. He's so lost, so... broken. If he were ever to bring a child into this world, he would break them, too. But she'd do right by a little tot, and she'll never get to have one.

He can't fall asleep when he tries. He feels like he's been on auto pilot since the world went to shit and is only now starting to realize the severity of their situation. The world is gone. Their families are dead. They might die at any moment, too. Those big family dinners of late, he realizes it's all the others have.

He's never been one to have dreams or hope for better days. He lives in the moment, always has, never looks back or ahead. He thinks about Andrea and all the people in the house, knowing they were the type of people who used to dream, who used to hope for better days. And those days will never come now. Those dreams are shattered. Best they can do is sit at the dinner table and laugh and pretend everything's okay. It keeps them sane, grounded, even if they sit in darkened rooms at the end of the day, quietly crying.

He's been too wrapped up in his own little petty problems to realize how much the others, Andrea, are hurting for a life they'll never have. He thinks, maybe it won't kill him to go easier on them from now on.

Except that little shit Carl. Pfff, Harry fucking Potter. Longest ass children's book ever written. It's gonna take her months, probably years, to finish it and Carl will just lay on her chest every night with that shit eating grin on his face. He has to give the kid some credit, he's actually giving him a pretty good fight. But Carl has seen nothing yet.

to be continued

* * *

><p><em>AN: Holy God, this chapter was a complete nightmare for me. Ugh, so glad it's over. I feel like I just gave birth to T-Dog. You guys have no idea how happy I am that you're enjoying this story so much. It means the world to me._


	6. Chapter 6

**It's On**  
>by Leela<p>

Daryl is a little late to breakfast the next day, a byproduct of his thoughts and the sudden insomnia that has overtaken him. Something new is troubling him, but he doesn't know what it is just yet.

But he's not _too_ late, and he still catches on to the atmosphere that surrounds the breakfast table.

For some reason, dinners are always filled with laughter, tales, smiles, and good camaraderie. But somehow, between the late hours and early mornings, everything always changes. This morning is no different. T-Dog, Rick, Shane, and Andrea sit at the table, absentmindedly nibbling on their breakfast. Each of them lost in their own thoughts. Carol hands him a plate of sad scrambled eggs, and he starts to walk out the door, but he remembers his resolution from the night before and sits by his friends on the table.

The minute he does, he wishes he hadn't.

They don't say anything. And when he looks at them he knows why. Rick is too overwhelmed by Lori and Carl; by the child that grows inside Lori that everyone knows belongs to Shane. Shane is barely keeping his shit together, his love for both Lori and Rick ripping his mind apart. T-Dog is too overcome by a sense of separation, and Andrea is shaken by a new revelation.

The mornings are always like this. Like they open their eyes to a new day and wonder why. Like they question the new days, their continuous heartbeats, their mere existence. Like they think they're gonna die some time during the night and are shocked when they don't. And when they don't it takes them half a day to process the information. To gear themselves into living this new life.

He understands, really. These people... they were normal people in the before. They were cops, lawyers, bank tellers... normal people. Nine to five people. Paycheck people. Bills and mail and that dreaded phone call to their parents on Sundays people.

Daryl was never like that. So he gives them some leeway. Fuck, he can't even remember the last time he saw a paycheck.

He wonders if he should just cancel the hunting lessons but figures she could probably benefit from the distraction. Hours later she follows him into the woods, looking at the ground the whole time _knowing_ she shouldn't do that. He gives her disapproving glances that she misses each time because her eyes are practically glued to her shoes. Daryl tells himself he should use this, use this moment, her disposition, to write her off and move on. It's like the universe is giving him a chance now, a small window, to walk away and just forget she ever existed.

But the truth is (he needs to be honest with himself just once) he's had many opportunities to do that, lately. The more time he spends with her the more he realizes she's just a person. She has cracks and faults just like him, just like Rick and Shane and Lori.

Hell, perhaps more.

She's not like Lori and Carol. She's not a doted wife and mother. She's not domestic. She doesn't clean. She doesn't wash. She doesn't perform any type of domestic duties. The very few times he's peeked into her room, it's a mess. Her clothes are everywhere. She's not organized. Her room is a mess and it fits her just right.

Just random shit everywhere. That seems to describe Andrea and these strange feelings he has for her just right. _Just random shit everywhere._ It's how it feels in his stomach when he looks at her. It's what's in his mind when he thinks about her. No logic, no sense, nothing tangible, a mess. Just random shit everywhere.

Lori and Carol expect things from her that she can't give them. They expect her to cook and clean but even if this was the 18th century, back when gender roles were strictly defined, he thinks Andrea still wouldn't conform to the norm. She's a mess and she's lazy and there's something about that, something about it that makes Daryl feel the pull of her even more. She does what she wants and doesn't do what she doesn't want to do and something about that attitude intrigues him.

He wonders how it would've been if she'd grown up with Merle instead. Daryl thinks Merle might've met his match.

She has faults, just like everyone.

There was the sandwich incident but, well, that wasn't a fault, really. That was more... an Andrea thing than anything else.

He frowns at the thought, troubled by the fact that some random things are slowly starting to become Andrea things. Nose scrunching: Andrea. Stubbornness and sarcasm: Andrea. Eye-rolling: Andrea. Ponytails and bullets: Andrea.

He doesn't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. He supposes there are several things that remind the group of him. Squirrels, that's for sure. He knows they can't hear the word squirrel without thinking 'Daryl'. Crossbows and arrows. That's Daryl. They see it, too.

As he snaps out of his thoughts he has to remind himself once more to stop breaking his own hunting rules. He's not looking at the ground, but keeps looking at her, missing all kinds of trails as he does. When he decides to focus and look around him he sees, far on a distant tree, a definitive mark and he approaches it. She follows complacently.

"See how deep that mark is?" he says, pointing to a sharp streak that tattoos the bark. She finally looks up. "Buck antlers. Remember the shit we saw yesterday? There's one of them 'round here. Ya gotta be smarter than them. Pick up on all the clues. This one's coming and going. Not too far off, I think."

Andrea runs her fingers through the mark, imagining the buck, wondering if she could even bring herself to shoot it. She can't imagine doing so, just can't imagine. Rick could, Shane could, hell, maybe even Lori could. But as she traces with her hand the proof of this creature's existence, imagines how beautiful it is, she wonders if this is something she can do.

It's after that thought that she turns to him, her brows bent. "Why are you doing this?"

He stops in his tracks and thunder in his head reaches down to his gut. "What?"

"Bringing me out here," she says, taking a few steps forward to face him. Instinctively, he takes the same amount of steps back. "You can track this buck, you could. But you're not, because you've got me here. Why?"

He frowns at the question, but mostly frowns at how much it catches him off guard. He tries to play cool, but her eyes are knowing and wild like too much information has been thrown at her in the last day and it's made a mess in her head.

"Thought ya wanted to learn."

"I did," she says, turning her head to the mark on the tree and recalling a distant memory. "A while ago. You told me to fuck off."

He frowns at the revelation. _What?_ "No I didn't?"

"You did," she says, smiling despite the graveness of the conversation. "Back in Georgia. You shouted at me and told me to fuck off. You don't remember?"

Daryl's eyes drift to the ground and he tries to visualize the scene. It's so far gone and so hazy he can't even imagine the look on her face or his. It's not there in his memory. He truly can't remember when this happened, but he's not surprised. So much took place while he was in the haze, and he imagines so much of the conflict was created by his inability to stay in the moment, to keep social.

He's not really sure what he must've said, done, to Carol, either, but this stings him deeper. Leaves him feeling ashamed and shocked that he could've ever said such a thing to her. No, it's not the meanest thing he's ever said. Not by a long shot. Glenn and T-Dog could attest to that. But he tries to imagine the look on her face after his supposed outburst and it makes him feel like the most giant piece of shit on the planet.

Now he's the one looking at the ground. "M' sorry."

"It's okay," she says and there's a tone of understanding in her voice that makes him hate himself even more.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know," she says quickly.

"I guess," he starts, and doesn't know how to continue because this is not scripted. This is not a moment he's ever thought about. He never expected her to question his motives, never thought she'd be smart enough to pick up on this.

But he looks at her and realizes she hasn't. She's curious, that's for sure. But she hasn't found the trail yet. He's not sure what's gonna happen if she does, now that she knows not to keep her eyes on the ground, to look around, to see everything. He taught her that. And now it might backfire on him.

He says what's on his mind and he the minute he does he regrets the words because they don't mean anything. They're just words, a stupid excuse that he hopes she won't buy. "I ain't gonna be around forever."

But she does buy them, and the shit hits the fan. "Don't say that."

"Someone's gotta take care of the group."

"Don't _say_ that."

He looks at her and there's a glisten in her eyes but they're also on fire, blue flames burning. He flinches, like she's about to hit him. If she does, though, he probably deserves it, he tells himself. "You're leaving us?"

He shakes his head, trying to backpedal but fuck, the haze takes over again and he's at a loss. He's never been good at talking, nor explaining himself. And he's sure as hell never been good at _expressing_ himself. And her eyes are still on fire. "S'not what I said."

"But you would," she retorts, confidently. "You would, wouldn't you?"

He feels like she's pinning him down to the ground and he stumbles to find new words but words have never been his thing.

"Yeah, you would," she adds. "If Merle came back tomorrow, you'd leave with him, wouldn't you? You wouldn't even care about us. That's why you're bringing me out here. You want me to fill your shoes when you leave, don't you?"

"I ain't leaving you," he finally says when the anger takes over and he just wants to shake her to make her _understand_ what he's saying and trying not to say. Wants her to read his mind and to hell with what she might find there. Because this feels so much worse, so wrong, that the taste of bile is already there on the back of his throat

"If you had the chance," she starts but doesn't end. She just sighs and shakes her head self-hatred takes over again as she begins to walk away.

"Hey, where ya going?"

"I'm tired, Daryl."

He feels like throwing up the minute she disappears back towards the house. Some fucking day this turned out to be.

Andrea feels like throwing up, too, struggles with the feeling as she places a hand over her stomach and thinks of everyone they've lost and everyone that now they might lose. Her headache begins to pound and to hell with the low medical supplies they have, she's going to drown a bottle of aspirin the minute she gets home. It's been a fucking emotional 24 hours and _she_ feels like leaving now. Knows she won't, but... hell, she needs a nap.

She feels like shit when she exits the treeline and Carl, upon seeing her, runs over, his father at his hells. She smiles at the boy but it's a forced smile that maybe Carl picks upon, because he stops dead in his tracks and his expression goes from happy to uncertain. But then she smiles again because really, it's not his fault.

Rick is much more perceptive, though, and tells the child to go back inside to his mother. Carl obeys him reluctantly and seeing the child walk away makes her feel better.

Lucky for her, Rick is not the pushing type and instead tries to make light of whatever it is he thinks might be troubling her.

"I think Carl might have a crush on you," he chuckles.

He surprises her with that one and she chuckles and feels much lighter, thank God. It's been a really emotional 24 hours. "He's adorable," Andrea tells him. "You're lucky."

"I know," Rick says. "Just... let him down gently, okay?"

"I wish I didn't have to let him down at all."

"He'll be fine," Rick says with a shrug. "Part of being a boy."

She looks at him and smiles. "Speaking from experience?"

Rick chuckles. Andrea thinks happiness suits Rick. It makes his eyes bright and takes off about 20 years off his face.

"Third grade social studies teacher."

Andrea can't help laughing, and it makes the nausea worse, makes her feel worse for allowing herself a moment of joy. She doesn't deserve it. But she grimaces at his confession. "Social studies? Really, Rick."

A blush appears on his cheeks but the memories come back to him and he smiles at the path ahead. "She used to sit on top of her desk and cross her legs. Let's just say I still can't identify the equator and prime meridian."

They start to laugh but don't really get a chance to. The minute she sees Lori stepping out of the house with that look on her face, Andrea knows it's gonna be a bad day for everyone. Especially Rick.

He feels it, too, and doesn't acknowledge her when she excuses herself. Before Lori even reaches her husband she's already going crazy, yelling at him about stuff that Andrea doesn't understand and probably never will. Lori doesn't know how good she has it, not really. Most of the time she's alright, but then other times her spoiled and selfish nature takes over. But Andrea shakes her head and keeps walking. Whatever's going on between those two it's going on between them and she's not gonna get involved.

She's on her way into the house when she notices Carl sitting on a log just off to the side. The minute she does she feels something heavy sinking in her stomach. She approaches him as Rick and Lori continue to yell at each other, and she smiles as she sits next to him. "Hey."

He doesn't reply, just sort of looks around, his eyes quickly looking up at the couple on the other side of the field and his mind telling him he doesn't care, shouldn't care, _won't_ care. It's useless to care. He should be used to it by now, anyway. It's always been like this. And it'll always be like this.

"You okay, sweetie?" Andrea asks and sees the conflict in his eyes. She wants to do so much for this kid who is being forced to grow up too fast, pressured to grow up just right, when the circumstances around him are just _so_ wrong.

"Yeah," Carl says without emotion or maybe so much emotion it leaves him cold inside. She strokes his back as Lori's voice raises and she thinks she should probably take him inside and spare him of being witness to his parents relationship falling apart.

But Carl strains to hear them. Like this is something he should take a part of. Like this is something he should know. He looks at them and hears them, studies them and takes in their disaster.

It's like he needs it to be over. It's almost like he's looking forward to it. It's like he knew their truth way before they did. Their marriage is dead. They don't love each other, anymore. They don't belong together.

Everyone knows it. But the fact that Carl knows, too, makes it much worse for Andrea.

"I heard... my mom," he says, unsure of himself. He's never talked about this, not to anyone. The thoughts are always there in his mind but he's never let them out. He's always been scared to. Scared that if they get out, they'll become real. Scared of them like the invisible monsters who used to hide in his closet when he was much younger. The thought of them, hidden in there, was always much worse than their possible existence. So he's always kept them trapped in his mind. In there, they're just thoughts. They're just prisoners. They're monsters trapped in a closet. They're not real. They can't hurt him.

Saying the words, though, out loud... they hurt him. But he knows Andrea won't let him get hurt. Andrea protects them all. She can shoot the monsters. "Before my dad got shot."

"Yeah?" she goads him.

"On the phone," he struggles, and the words make no sense and they're out of order but it's the only way they'll come out. "And then I saw the papers. It said divorce."

Andrea nods understandingly. Her hand strokes his back again, wanting to protect him but not knowing how. She's never been good with kids, after all. "That was before, Carl."

"I know," he says. Something inside of her breaks. He sounds so grown up, so adult, so old. But he's still just a kid. Just a baby. It was different when Sophia was around. He could be a kid with her. He could talk to her in their kid language and lean on her in the way little brothers depend on their big sisters. After all, Sophia, too, came from a broken marriage. They used to rely on and protect each other.

But Sophia isn't here anymore. Now it's just him. A little boy growing in the apocalypse, the weight of the world on his shoulders, his parents estranged relationship weighing him down even more. Carl has the odds stacked against him, and when she glances at Rick and Lori, still yelling at each other, she can't help the feeling of resentment.

What she wouldn't do for this kid. What she wouldn't risk. She'd die a thousand times over just to end Carl's mental suffering. She'd die a thousand times over just to protect him. How come Lori can't see it?

But Carl surprises her, nonetheless. He's only a little boy, but he's still strong. He's resilient. People used to say, all the time, that kids adapt easier to new situations. Maybe the hope they're looking for lies in Carl. Maybe the fact that he's a kid will work out for their future. Maybe it's Carl who is the strongest

He sighs and looks at his mom and then looks up to Andrea. "I'll take care of the baby."

She smiles at him, kissing the top of his head. "I know you will."

He smiles and leans into her embrace. Feeling lighter. Stronger. "I hope it's a girl. Do you think it's a girl?"

"I don't know, buddy," she tells him, poking at his ribs and making him laugh. His baby white teeth showing make her feel lighter, too. "Might be a boy, too."

"No, I bet it's a girl," he nods confidently. "I'll take care of her. I won't let her die like Sophia."

"I know you will," she tells him. "But you know, Sophia's death wasn't your fault."

"I know," he tells her with a tone that says _duh!_ and Andrea smiles.

"Yeah, it might be a girl," she says. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I wanted Amy to be a boy?"

Carl chuckles. "Ew! I don't want a brother!"

"_I_ did," Andrea tells him, chuckling. "But I think it's because I wanted to be the only girl. I wanted to be unique."

"I _don't_ want a brother."

She smiles. "But then Amy was born and I loved her so much. Right off the bat. I don't think it matters, Carl. I don't think it matters if it's a boy or a girl. You'll be the big sibling. Being the big sibling is so special. You'll get to protect him. Or her. It won't matter. You'll love that baby just as much if it's a boy."

He smiles as he imagines her. Her because Andrea is wrong. It's a girl. He knows it. Feels it. His sister. A person to talk to. A person to love and take care of who is new and impressionable. His mom and dad: they're not his anymore. They don't belong to each other, either. They're not glued together. Not like they used to be. Hell, they probably never were. But this baby... this baby is all his. This baby is going to be just fine. He'll love her in a special way, just like he loves Andrea, and he'll protect her from the walkers and he'll protect her from his mom and dad.

He leans onto Andrea a bit heavier and he doesn't care about his parents yelling at each other, anymore. His dad is broken and his mother is not all there. And it's always been like that. He's used to it. It's normal.

Other thoughts enter his mind and when he feels Andrea's lips pressed to his temple again he looks up at her. "Do you think Harry's gonna be okay?"

She chuckles and her eyes become bluer. They're icy, but somehow warm. "I think he'll be just fine."

"Yeah," Carl says confidently. "I think so, too."

"What do you say, huh?" Andrea nudges at him. "One more chapter before lunch?"

She never does manage to get that nap but feels much better by afternoon.

She doesn't know what prompts her to wait outside the house.

She doesn't know if it's her conversation with Carl, her witnessing Rick and Lori's marriage falling apart at the seams. She doesn't know what it is. She doesn't know why.

She just doesn't want it to be like this. What that 'it' is, she doesn't know. She's still not aware of it. But she thinks of everything that happened that morning, thinks of Rick and Lori, and knows she never wants to be like that.

Especially these days, when it can be over so soon.

So she waits for him right outside the house, her eyes darting from one corner of the forest to another whenever she feels movement or hears something. He might not even come back today. She's known him to stay out hunting for days. She might be waiting just in vain but she waits nonetheless. She wills to see him emerge from the treeline. She needs to see him again. She doesn't know why.

It's dawn when she finally sees him. He's stumbling towards the camp, dragging several dead animals behind him. She smiles and feels nervous, ashamed about all the things she said to him. She jogs towards him, and when she's two step in front of him she stops. He stops, too.

Suddenly she wants to fucking run away. This sucks. She was a bitch to him and she needs to make things right. She needs to apologize. But Andrea's never apologized. She's never apologized to anybody. She was born in early May, after all. She's a Taurus. She's strong and stubborn. She's a bull.

But hell, she also knows when she's wrong. "Hey."

"Ey." He stands there looking nervous, not knowing where this is coming from, if she's gonna start talking to him again like she did that morning. He stands there waiting for the blow because he messed things up and he deserves her scorn.

"Hey. Look, I'm sorry," she tells him instead, her eyes softening. "I'm really sorry. Can you forgive me?"

His mind goes blank at the shock and he frowns at her like she's speaking in a completely different language. "What?"

"I'm..." She struggles and sighs, decides to just put on her big girl panties and admit to fault. "I was being a bitch. I'm really sorry, I'm just having a bad day. Can you forgive me?"

He blinks and thinks she's gone mad. Or maybe he's gone mad. What the hell is this now?

When he doesn't react, just stands there frowning with a look she mistakes as anger, she shakes her head. It's okay. She deserves this. She treated a friend badly and these are the consequences. "Fine," she says, starts to walk back to the house. "It's okay, just... I'm sorry."

He doesn't know what to do. Nobody's ever apologized to him before, not ever. But she seemed genuinely concerned and though he's still confused he finally reacts, understands finally when her head lowers and she wraps her arms around her to stay warm.

"You gone crazy?" he calls after her.

She stops, turns around and looks at him. "What?"

He shakes his head. Jesus. "I ain't mad at ya."

Andrea's expression goes from defeated to hopeful. "You're not?"

"Jesus," he mutters, thinking, _'women. Fucking women.'_

She asks again, like he might be pulling her chain or something. "You're not mad?"

"The hell would I be mad?" he tells her in his old cantankerous way.

"I just... I don't know." When she thinks about it, it does sound kind of ridiculous. Well, not really, but... hell. "What I said to you, I mean... Ugh, sorry. I'm just having a weird day."

He nods at her. "S' okay."

"You _should_ be mad, though. I took it out on you, and I shouldn't have," she says with a final sigh. "So I'm sorry and I'll stop talking now."

He sort of smiles, nods at her. Jesus, this is a weird one. He's only ever known two types of women in his life: the Carols and the dirty sluts who used to hang out at the local bar back home (sometimes he sort of wonders where Lori fits in there be he decides he likes Rick too much to reach a conclusion). Andrea is neither of those. She's some sort of weird new specimen.

He downplays his thoughts with a shrug. "Just thought you were PMIsing or something."

She chuckles lightly and nods like she deserves the jab. "You could say that."

"Kay," he says, practically sees the tension in both their shoulders dissolve. "So I ain't mad and I ain't leaving, okay?"

She nods and smiles. "Okay."

He nods back, not knowing what to make of this moment, how it's going to affect... well, the whatever. He's always felt sort of intimidated, weak, and weary around her, but as he forgives her for something he feels she shouldn't apologize for he feels stronger. A little bit more confident. And _weird_.

Unaware that they're both each sitting on different plates of a balance scale and his is raising and hers is falling, like something wants to make sure its contents are equal.

"Come on," he says, showing her a dead squirrel. "Ya get to learn to skin them now."

"Ugh," Andrea grimaces, but the expression turns into a smile as she follows him out back and says goodbye to these horrible 24 hours.

to be continued


End file.
